Hot Fucking Truth Manifesto

I’m so fucking tired of all these pieces I keep reading on sites about how to love this kind of person or that kind of person. I’m tired of reading about how love should look, or what to look for to find love.

Sick. To. Death.

So here is my very own Hot Fucking Truth Manifesto to express all the shit going on inside of me…

I’m not looking for a man to complete me, or a man with whom our broken pieces fit together perfectly.

I want a man who sees how completely fucked up I am, and I him, and we live our lives separately, yet together, helping each other grow, learn and fulfill our dreams on our own terms.

To be there to pick each other up, to laugh together, to celebrate both the big and little things in life, to cry with each other and be each other’s rock of stability.

To share tender moments together and not be afraid to do so, because the trust we share is solid.

Life isn’t a rom com.

Oh, but the movies want you to believe that shit, and as a woman I’ve been spoon fed that bullshit since my teen years.

Sorry, but there is no “you complete me”. There is no happily ever after. How many times do we all get a happy ending? And I’m not talking in a dirty strip club way here.

There is only “I”, as in me, myself. When each of us is our own autonomous person, that is completion, and when we find another like that, then that is a solid “we”.

I’m fucking tired of poetry, literature, movies, magazines, going on ad nauseam, telling me what love is or looks like; that if it’s true love things will be easy and fall into place.

Nothing ever worth having is given freely and easily, if it is, it can fall apart and mean nothing just as easily. Everything I’ve ever achieved in this life was a fight to get and keep, why wouldn’t and shouldn’t love be that way as well?

I am an imperfectly fucked up mess in so many ways; some ways are funny, some ways are scary, but guess what? Everyone is a fucking mess in one way or another. It’s how we rise above that fucking mess that defines character and crafts us into our own Michelangelo masterpiece.

But I digress… and here’s where it gets personal.

I now speak to that one man out there, and he knows who he is.

The truth is I want to see you in all your fucked-upness – every scar, every flaw, everything you dislike about yourself, every insecurity.

Show me. I want it all.

I want to tear down my walls, rip open my broken, bruised, and abused heart and show you all of my fucked-upness as well.

Raw. Real. No photoshop or flowery poetic words to disguise or manipulate any of this realness.

Yes, I am strong and stubborn and independent, but so are you.

You are a fucking warrior because warriors are bred from struggles and adversity.

Your intelligence and talents are your sword and shield for all to see, but I want what’s behind that, that which you protect. Those things that scare you to share with another.

You are magnificence in my eyes because of all you’ve been through, the lives you’ve touched, the pain and heartache you’ve endured, and the kindness that still remains in your heart that you so generously share with everyone in your world.

Fucking imperfect perfection.

I fucking want you, all of you.

There are no other stars in my sky, you alone shine, and I wouldn’t want it any other fucking way.